


the ballad of suns and serpents

by poise



Series: where the odds lie [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Aristocrat!Mark, M/M, Mentions of Blood, More tags added soon, Past Victor!Hyuck, Psychological Trauma, Resolved Sexual Tension, The Capitol (Hunger Games), Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poise/pseuds/poise
Summary: There has always been, only one enemy.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee, side Huang Renjun/Na Jaemin
Series: where the odds lie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889089
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> you don’t need to read the books or watch the movies to understand the story, it’s pretty straight forward :] general context is—the government’s fucked up and they put kids in an arena to fight to the death. enjoy, side ships will appear soon!

Donghyuck finds a liking towards the number twelve. 

It rolls off the tongue easily, three letters short of his own name. 

It represents his district. The ones who spend their days in coal mines with dirt under their fingernails and sweat drenching their ragged slacks. They obtain the raw materials and the produced goods go straight to the Capitol where it belongs. They’re the ones who make all the money. A lot of it too.

Twelve stays being one of the lower, if not the lowest of districts among Panem where death was just another looming thought that occupies the mind when hunger wasn’t. They take turns, vice versa. On some days, Donghyuck thought of both at the same time. Rotten fruit and stale bread was considered a feast on some nights and the livestock had more meat on their bones compared to the humans. It wasn’t like there was much to hunt anyways. Still, it was home. The only one he ever knew. 

Twelve was the age when he took part in his first Reaping. He sees the aftermath of the Reapings each year. Children ages eleven and below weren’t allowed to gather but the cries that rip through the air when the tributes were chosen, Donghyuck couldn’t forget them even if he tried. He thinks it’s worse for the ones that weren’t chosen. There’s sorrow on their faces, no doubt. But there was also relief, another year where their death was not showcased for the whole nation to make a spectacle of. And with that sense of relief, comes the guilt. The guilt of finding peace in knowing that it was someone else’s fate instead of your own. 

But everybody gets it. It’s either you or them. And better them than you.

His first Reaping took place on one of the bleakest days of winter when there was barely enough heat in the air to keep his fingers from numbing. Donghyuck picked at his cotton button—up, the special itchy kind his mother kept just for special occasions. It looked dull and smelled like the inside of a wet, wooden closet.

The rest of the kids were dressed just the same. Donghyuck thinks it makes them feel more invisible. They would take even the slimmest chance of not being noticed, not being picked. The kids who had signed up for the tesserae to gain extra grain and oil, shrunk into their clothes. 

He heard through the grapevine that some had entered their name more than twenty times for the Reaping. Mostly the kids who lived in the Seam—the further part of the district. Twenty times just for some extra grain and oil to live another few weeks before they starve again.

Donghyuck doesn’t blame them though. He knows his enemies and it wasn’t them.

There has always been, only one enemy.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mark wakes up with a splitting headache and his head halfway down the edge of the bed. The bed is unfamiliar, he notices by the smell. But he recognizes the ring of his phone. Blindly, he reaches for it somewhere in the sheets beneath him and hears a grunt somewhere on the other side of the bed. Also unrecognizable. 

He only realizes he’s naked when he pulls the sheets off after a frustratingly slow few minutes of futile searching. 

“Yeah?” he asks groggily with the phone pressed against his ear. He sees a flash of a ‘ _ J’ _ on the contact name before picking up and has his guesses on who it is waiting on the other line. 

“Where the hell are you?” Johnny hisses, a little too loud for Mark’s liking. He pulls the phone further away.

“Somewhere.” Mark simply answers because he genuinely doesn’t know either. Nor does he remember anything. Vague flashes of a party, maybe some of that new stuff he’s heard dealt around here and there. Mark doesn’t remember taking it but then again, he doesn’t remember half of his night. 

He does remember stumbling his way here with wandering hands on his thighs and lips on his neck. Where “here” is exactly,  _ that  _ he doesn’t know. 

“Well, you better get here before your parents find out. Opening is in less than an hour. An  _ hour _ Mark. They can’t open with the ‘guest of honour’ missing.” 

The words are jumbled and confusing in Mark's brain and he takes a second to squeeze his eyes shut before letting them sink in.  _ Opening. Half an hour. Guest of Honour. Opening. Half an hour. Guest of Honour.  _

He jumps out of bed and ignores the way the cold creeps up between his thighs as he pulls his slacks up from the floor. He throws his lime green coat over his shoulders and finds a way out the penthouse. 

Only the places further away from the heart of the city have penthouses this small. 2 stories, 5 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms and a dining hall — it was practically the size of a chicken’s den, not that he has seen one of those but if he were to take a guess it would look a lot like this. 

The coat is sticking to his skin by the time he makes it to the opening, ten minutes to spare with his hair sticking up in every possible direction. Johnny is there waiting at the entrance with his feet tapping against the ground. Mark knows he wants to ask questions but he doesn’t. They come later.

For now, all he does is pat Mark’s hair down and sends him on his way. He’s ushered past a door, golden plated rims and curling doorknobs. He knows this place too well.

The sound of cameras clicking makes his head throb and his father's wide smile makes him wince. There’s something itching under that smile. He’s waved over.

“There he is. Everyone, please make way for the Guest of Honor, my son! Minhyung Lee.” 

The shop smells like cement and expensive perfume. He’s seen this place built from scratch into the glory that it is today, possibly one of the best boutiques on this side of the Capitol. Mark scratches his head, messing his hair up again.

He thinks he looks nothing like the ‘Guest of Honor’. Especially not someone who’s in charge of running this business. He smells like sex and feels like he just drank his way to liver failure.

The opening goes by smoothly and all he receives are bouquets, praises, tight smiles from his mother and congratulations. He texts Johnny to bring him an extra coat when he starts feeling disgusted with all the sweat and perfume mixing on his skin. 

The guests were talking a little too close for his liking. They would lean in for a hug or a kiss on the cheek. It’s a common thing but Mark, for the life of him, couldn’t bear the smell of their perfume. It smelt cheap. How could you walk around this side of the Capitol with perfume that cheap? It sounded like a death sentence and he has half the mind to throw them out for it.

“Minhyung,” his mother waves him over. 

He sees a man with her, most likely around his fifties. Most likely someone important by the golden crest sitting prettily on his chest. Mark’s only seen Capitol officials wear those. 

The Capitol kids call them Heads. They handle the domestic work in the Capitol. Currency, taxes, the law and such. But they don’t carry them out and they’re not exactly on par or above the President. No one is above the President. 

But they’re government higher—ups and so people call them the Heads.

Mark stands a little straighter when he marches towards them, cheeks achingly stretching in favour of the wide grin on his lips.

“This is Mr. Ladarius. He’s a friend of your father’s.” her eyes fleet between him and Mark. 

“And this is my son, Minhyung Lee.”

Up close, Mark really takes in the golden crest sitting on his chest. It glints even under the fluorescent lights. It pairs well with his expensive perfume. Mark likes this man. “Nice to meet you sir.”

“I heard about the opening and was around. I just had to stop by to see it for myself. Your father seems very proud of you.” He juts his chin and Mark follows his line of sight. His father is surrounded by guests, reporters, a smile on his face. Mark swallows.

“Thank you.” 

If Mark was bold he would say that smile was nothing near satisfied nor proud. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck has never seen fear so evident in someone’s eyes like the first time he saw a tribute get dragged off during his first Reaping. Years later, even when he has stared fear dead in its eyes several times after, nothing quite sticks like the first time. 

He was only twelve rows away from the main stage during his first Reaping. The square was filled with kids ages twelve to eighteen with Peacekeepers lined up along the Justice Building in their typical white uniforms, guns hung limply in their arms. They stood out, glowed between the sea of dull colours. The cotton button—up was definitely itching below his neck and he tried not to pick at it even more than he already has. He could feel his skin reddening under his nails.

Donghyuck spotted one of the boys that he often saw hanging around the Hob. He had short hair that never seemed to grow past his ears and black caking under his fingernails—Donghyuck could never tell if it was the dirt, coal or if it was just their natural colour at this point. 

He wasn’t one to judge, he couldn’t remember the last time he had taken the time to properly trim his own nails. It always did bother him though, especially when he needed to gut out the animals he hunted. Meat would cake under his fingernails and that was just a waste. Meat was rare.

But, this boy was funny. At least from what Donghyuck could gather. He always had a smile on his face, quite a jester. Even if his ribs would poke out through his thin shirt when he laughed. Sometimes he’d catch his gaze across the Hob, greeted by a soft grin—almost invitingly. His grandmother would often buy the squirrel meat Donghyuck hunted the day before.

Donghyuck wanted to wave him over. Hoped that his laughs would help distract him from the growing itch on his skin. He rubbed the area with his thumb.

Jester boy wasn’t looking in his direction and it was odd to see him without that blinding smile. Donghyuck reminds himself of the weight of the situation. They were waiting for the Reaping to start and the boy’s eyes were on the bowl, filled with strips of paper that would seal their fate.

It was always easy to see things from a hunter’s point of view, the calculated steps it would take to lure the prey. But Donghyuck never thought about what it took for the prey to outsmart the hunter. And right now, he felt a lot like the prey. Packed, fresh meat. 

The mic boomed throughout the square and his hand fell limply to his side by instinct. There was a podium placed right on stage—simple, wooden, a number twelve stuck to the front. The mayor stepped forward and started. It was the same procedure each year, at least from what Donghyuck could tell. 

The speeches were always loud enough to reach his rickety wooden house all the way at the end of the Seam. Donghyuck would press his ear against the thin walls and listen to every word. 

The mayor reads the history of how Panem came to be. The rebellion that rose decades ago that caused nothing but divide and the downfall of the Capitol.  _ ‘The Dark Days’. _

The defiance that led to the ashes of District Thirteen and the Treaty of Treason. A new set of laws enforced to make sure an uprising would never happen again and an annual reminder of it, the Hunger Games.

By the time the mayor finished, Donghyuck heard the click clacking of high heels against the stage and saw a woman come to view. ‘She looks outrageous’ was his first thought. 

With lime green hair that rested against her forehead curled at the ends like a corkscrew, she wore a cerulean blue pantsuit to match it. Donghyuck could see the glittering eyeliner against her pale skin even from a distance. 

This woman had to be Twelve’s official escort, Cherry Hawkfall, he thinks.

He’s heard the older kids talk about her in school. They called her the Witch because of her eerie wide smile and pale skin. Just the cost of her hair alone would bring a whole month of food on the table. 

She tapped the microphone with her gloved hands, introduced herself and paused as if she was anticipating a round of applause. The ends of her mouth twitched when she received nothing short but a silent hum. 

Still, Cherry Hawkfall made her way towards the first bowl of names.  _ Ladies first!  _ She would say (over time, Donghyuck learns she doesn't stop saying it). Her hand reached deep into the bowl and pulled out a strip of paper. The crowd held their breath and even Donghyuck found himself stilling.

She strutted her way back to the microphone in her expensive heels and announced the tribute. 

There was silence and then a strangled cry pierced the air. Naturally, Donghyuck snapped his head towards it, the girl's side of the crowd. The girl, who he guesses was the chosen tribute, was sobbing her heart out as the crowd parted to make her a path. 

She was a dainty little thing, barely any meat on her bones. She couldn’t be any more older than Donghyuck had been himself. He knows she wouldn’t make it a week in that arena and the silence that hung in the air tells him everyone else was thinking the same thing. 

“Excellent!” Cherry Hawkfall exclaimed as the girl found her way towards the stage. It made a sour taste linger on Donghyuck’s tongue and the itch under his neck became unbearable. He managed to sneak a few more scratches before forcing his hand down.

“Now for the boys.” 

He gulped.

He wouldn’t be the most unfit tribute to be chosen amongst the sea of possible tributes. He knew how to wield a knife, how to shoot an arrow. He’s been hunting before, even if it was illegal to go past the fences surrounding Twelve. It was punishable by death even.

The wired fences were supposed to be charged with electricity but there was barely any in Twelve, to begin with. He does wait to check though. Listened for the low hum in the wires. It was mostly only there during certain times of the night. He hunted during the day.

It was only him and his mother anyway. A small goose would keep them fed for a good three days. 

Still, the thought of the Games scared him. The thought of leaving his mother, scared him.

Donghyuck eyed Cherry Hawkfall’s skinny figure as she dipped her hand into the clear bowl of names and swirled it around. She stopped and pulled out a slip of paper. 

He didn’t dare to look up and only focused his attention to his worn—out shoes. The click-clacking of her heels made his skin burn.

She straightened out the slip of paper and breathed the name into the microphone. 

It was a name Donghyuck hadn’t known. It was so unfamiliar he didn't even recognize the surname. 

It made him feel even guiltier for the wave of relief that flowed through his body. At least it wasn’t him. 

He took a deep breath and willed himself to look up. To see the poor soul whose fate would be at the mercy of the Capitol’s entertainment. Donghyuck was met with the puzzling sight of the crowd parting around the jester boy instead. A pair of Peacekeepers with their hands looped around his arm. It confused him. 

That was, until another piercing cry greeted the air. It dawned on him. District Twelve’s new male tribute was the boy Donghyuck had planned to befriend all this while. 

Jisung Park—he learned his name—was a crying mess in the crowd. Thrashing around in the arms of the Peacekeepers as they attempted to drag him out of the crowd. For a moment, he stilled and whipped his head around like a wild animal, in search of something.

It wasn’t ideal with how they were pushing him through the square but he didn’t give up, twisting his neck in every direction he could until he stopped. 

Donghyuck felt sick to his stomach when his eyes landed on him. There was something so terrifying in his gaze—hope, fear, a mix. Mostly fear. 

They were at least three rows apart from each other but Donghyuck couldn’t miss those pleading eyes from even a mile away. He found his body paralyzed. 

Jisung Park was clearly looking at him. But why? He thought. What could Donghyuck do for him? He wanted to yell at him to look away, yell at himself for not being able to but instead he stood there and watched. 

He watched as Jisung Park, his jester boy, got dragged across the square by his limp feet. Horrified eyes never once leaving his. 

Donghyuck found the world at a standstill when he saw Jisung’s lips part ever so slightly. He muttered something so inaudible that if Donghyuck’s eyes weren’t so focused on him, he would’ve missed it like everyone else. 

His blood ran cold. It was a simple word that held so much weight.  _ “Please.”  _

Jisung was pleading with him for something but what could he possibly do? Anything he does would be defying the Capitol. And nobody defied the Capitol. They would be as good as dead either way. 

For once, Donghyuck wished he could focus on the itch under his neck but was long gone now. His limbs were numb and his blood was icy. 

He knew Jisung would never make it. He was too thin and his meltdown would be aired across every screen in the Capitol. Every tribute would see him as an easy target and no sponsor would even think to spend their money on dead meat. He would never win the Games.

Donghyuck forced his head down to look at his shoes covered in specks of mud. Acting like the hero would be foolish. There were no winners, he reminded himself. Nobody ever wins the Games. There were survivors, never winners.

Jisung Park died on the third day in the arena with his head bashed in with a rock.

And Donghyuck forced himself to watch every second of it through his broken television screen. He watched every hit, every drop of blood that oozed past his broken skull and wondered if it could’ve been different. If it was him in that arena instead, would he have won against those group of Careers that hunted Jisung down for days?

Donghyuck thinks he owed him this much.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There are two kinds of monsters in this world. 

The kind that are told in folktale and books. Stories of creatures that devour dreams, big teeth and red eyes. They are most feared by monsters who pose as humans.

The ones who feed off greed and power, who are cunning without the understanding of the human heart. They walk among their kind in expensive wear and marble skin. 

Mark thinks he would not be able to tell them apart for he too, lives among them. He is a part of the system that creates these monsters and feeds them.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck supposes it was karma when his name was plucked out of the sea of ballots in the 74th year of the Games. It had been exactly six years since Jisung was chosen. Now, Donghyuck stood in his place — a skinny eighteen year old boy from the Seam who hadn’t even noticed when his name was called upon, too busy dreading the sound of the choked sob that would pierce the air.

When it didn't come, he lifted his head and found the crowd looking at him, parting in the middle right where he stood. He knew it’s him when he saw Cherry Hawkfall smiling at him through her pearly white teeth. Donghyuck didn’t put up a fight like the others before and hauled himself respectfully onto the stage like there weren't half a dozen cameras zooming in on his face.

He deserved it, he told himself. Even believed that Jisung Park had been conspiring with the Gods to make it happen — to wait until the very last year of when he could be a possible contender for the Games to have him picked. Donghyuck imagined him laughing somewhere up in heaven. He wasn’t religious but he does allow himself to be a little selfish. To give himself a little peace of mind knowing Jisung is somewhere else, somewhere better. 

Donghyuck’s female counterpart looked deathly sick beside him, skin so pale that the sun could pass right through her. She shivered when Cherry tapped a hand on her back and Donghyuck remembered how much he hated himself for betting on how long she would last in the arena. He hoped he wouldn’t be there to watch her die, let alone be the one to kill her.

They get taken into custody afterwards and he found himself staring at the creamy white walls of the room. He’s never been in the Justice Building. Never been in a room as beautiful and rich as this and found himself more scared of tainting the satin sofa than the thought of going into the arena. 

His mother walked in through the fine wooden doors a minute later and snapped his attention towards her. Her skinny frame and sunken cheeks were even more apparent on that day but Donghyuck told himself not to cry. She could barely walk and couldn’t be any sicker than she already was, the thought of a dead son would be the last thing she needed. 

She wrapped him in her bony arms. He had grown taller over the years with thicker hair, a broader chest and more chiselled jaw. They don’t speak for a while but he understood by the way she shivered in his hold. 

“Try,” she whispered when they parted. Her slender fingers went to cup his jaw and there was so much adoration in her eyes that for a moment he worried more of her than himself. “Don’t you worry about me.” She muttered as if she read his mind. “I’ll be right here waiting when you come back.”

Donghyuck only nodded. He didn’t want to speak at the risk of letting out the choked sob clawing its way through his throat. 

A knock on the door escorted her out.

Another figure slipped in after her and Donghyuck recognized this one the most. The hollow brown eyes and thin lips. “Hey,” Yangyang started. 

He was the closest thing Donghyuck had to a friend in Twelve. They were both in the same class for as long as he could remember and Yangyang’s family would always be the ones to buy the turkeys he’d catch just outside the fence in Twelve.

“Hey,” Donghyuck replied simply. He knew there was much to be said but he was grateful Yangyang doesn’t try to bring any of it up. Instead, he sat on the satin sofa and ran his fingers through its softness. Donghyuck joined him. 

“You’re fast, you know. You can win.” He said quietly after a few moments. 

Donghyuck wanted to say he couldn’t outrun them all and that winning was just a fool’s dream. But that would be too cruel. He hummed.

“You’ll take care of my mother when I’m gone, see to it that she eats. Can you do that for me?” Donghyuck asked.

“ _ While  _ you’re gone,” Yangyang emphasized. “You’re coming back.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dawn barely forms along the horizon as Mark cradles the drink in his hand like a hopeless lover. It’s too loud in the city today and all he knows is that he shouldn’t be having a drink in his hand this early in the morning. Not if he’s planning to listen to Johnny nagging his ear off for the next hour when he comes by to drop off a list of his agendas for the day. 

But he tells himself he deserves this much peace. Even for a little while. 

He is seated at the edge of his bed, studying the colors that make up the sky through the large glass windows adjacent to his bed. 

They appear everyday, routinely without fail and on most days they look glossed over like a painting. Today is not like most days. 

Today they are raw and unruly across the sky. A beautiful fusion of purple and striking pale blue. It might just be the alcohol, Mark thinks. 

Or perhaps it’s the start of something unfamiliar and new. As if almost on cue, his doorbell rings and echoes throughout the apartment. 

He hauls himself to his feet and walks a good distance to the front door, knowing who stands on the other side.

A scoff, all too familiar, is what greets him this early in the morning. “You look like absolute shit.”

It tickles the inside of his chest and forces a chortle out through his nose. “Thanks.” He mutters and takes another sip of his drink. The ice melts and condenses around the glass, soaking his palm—the water trickles down his sleeve.

A hand maneuvers the glass out of his grip, replacing it with a cup of hot coffee and Mark hesitantly complies before humming delightfully. 

“Did you forget you have a meeting today?”

Johnny leaves the glass in the sink and places a paper bag on the kitchen island. It smells like pastries from that bakery Mark is so fond of, just down the street from his apartment. 

He settles on the creaking chair and rummages through the bag. “I didn’t forget, I chose to ignore it.” 

A sharp exhale leaves Johnny’s lips. “For how much longer?” 

“Until I’m sober enough to get mad at you for getting me decaf.” 

Johnny presses two fingers to his temple, massaging the area and it entertains Mark to no end. “Mark, I’m serious.” He says, exasperated. 

He receives a stink eye in return. 

“So am I. Honestly, what is this?” Mark pushes the cup of coffee in his direction disapprovingly and hops off the chair before Johnny can retaliate any further. He dusts the crumbs off his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt right there in the living room, letting it fall to the ground as he leaves it unbothered. 

A mutter of the word  _ brat _ is the last thing he hears thrown in the air as he makes his way back up the stairs, and into the shower.

The sound of the water running is heard not a minute later. He scrubs the grogginess and the body heat away, hissing at the way it trickles down his leg and into the drain. There is a part of him that wishes the weight on his shoulders could wash away along with it.

Mark emerges out fully sober with a towel pressed against his wet hair. This time, he wears navy blue slacks paired with a white collared shirt when he sits back on the creaking chair—neat enough to look business casual for Johnny to offer him a look of approval. 

Beneath that, there's agitation. In the form of a thinly pressed line along his lips that lingers too long and if Mark hadn’t known him for so long, he wouldn’t have noticed at all. He licks his own lips and flips through the news, waiting for Johnny to muster his thoughts coherently. 

Mark often forgets he is not a man of patience.

“What is it?” He asks, almost accusingly after a long few moments of waiting. 

Johnny only ever hesitates for reasons Mark is able to count on one hand—the business and his parents. Neither of which he’s eager to listen to. 

“Your father called.”

The words gauge almost an instant reaction in Mark’s stomach, feeling the pastries pushing their way up his throat. The dread that settles itself atop his pride is a feeling he knows intimately but is never able to get used to.

“He wants to see if you would join him and your mother for dinner.” Johnny sounds almost guilty for relaying the message.

Something close to distaste curls thickly over Mark’s features, he doesn’t try to hide it. At least, not from Johnny — the only person he’s able to confide in. 

Mark schools his voice and replies with a question of his own. “What time is my meeting?” 

It catches Johnny off guard, and he fishes through the front pockets of his pants for his phone. He keeps Mark’s schedule in a small note, always sure to keep him on time. 

“In the afternoon.” He answers, still puzzled. 

Mark pushes his tongue between his lips before speaking. “Move it to dinner.” He straightens his back when he reaches for his jacket hung neatly on the rack. 

“And tell my parents I have a meeting.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck’s earliest and only memories of his father were blurred images of a man who stood tall and routine cries that sounded from his mother. Donghyuck can’t say he knew him a lot. He hadn’t known him at all.

He taught him how to hunt and that was all the acknowledgement he owed him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A shrill ring pierces the air and cuts through the comfortable silence. The sun is a beam just outside the blinds. 

The strident ring is followed by the sound of Donghyuck’s head thudding against the wooden headboard, he blindly reaches for the alarm on the bedside table. 

It’s a fruitless attempt, really, and it’s shrill increases by ten folds each second that goes by. His patience runs so thinly that so he rips the plug out of the socket violently. The sound dies down almost immediately like a battered doll. 

There’s no use in going back to sleep now, he’s too aware of the light that starts to peek through the curtains. 

He pulls himself to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen with breakfast in mind. The walk takes a lot more time than he preferred but he knows this place like the back of his hand, he’s able to find his way there—blindly. Donghyuck thinks he almost knows this place more than his own apartment. 

The scent of warm, herbal tea greets his nose the second he tilts the kettle and fills the cup with hot water. It’s an odd mix—the cold air against his bare chest and the warm tea traveling down his throat to settle nicely in his stomach. 

Soon, they’re accompanied with snaking arms that hang loosely on his waist. Donghyuck only stares into the city’s skyline and lets the hands explore the expanse of his bare stomach, finally settling back on his hips. A pair of lips push against his hair. 

“You broke my alarm.” They whisper, resting on the area where his neck and shoulder meets. There’s humor in the tone but the voice is too raspy. Donghyuck hates the way it makes the blood rush down between his legs. 

“You shouldn’t be having alarms this early in the morning.” 

“I have a job, sweetheart.” Jeno chuckles, pressing a kiss on a bruised spot on his neck. Donghyuck pushes him off and pulls his focus back to the skyline. 

It reminds him that Jeno is still a small part of the Capitol and for that, there will always be a small part of him that despises him for it. He isn’t a bad person, no—Donghyuck would go as far as to call him a friend. An ally may be more fitting. 

One of the only people he’s able to tolerate.

“Stop thinking so loudly.” Jeno says, toned chest presses against his bare back once again. That is all he has been able to do, think loudly. 

But Donghyuck doesn’t want to think. Not this early in the morning. So he puts his cup down and pushes himself to face Jeno. 

Brown eyes look back at him with the same hunger he feels somewhere in his chest, burrowed between his pride and conscience. In one fell swoop, he presses his lips against his and tumbles onto the countertop behind. 

Arms encase his thighs and grounds him in place—he doesn’t think. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Growing up, Mark has never been a big fan of the Hunger Games. Of course, he couldn’t say that—he’d be damned. The Capitol kids would rave on and on about it, it was a never ending tradition. 

Whenever the Games had come around, he’d see the same bland propos displayed throughout the streets—plagued by adverts announcing the dates, seating tickets, bets, anything of the sort. 

It didn’t mean much growing up, he was never the best student in History. Something about a war and rebellion—truth be told, he couldn’t care less. To ten year old Mark Lee, as long as he wasn’t ever involved in the Reapings, he’d spend the rest of his days happy. 

He was never interested in tuning in but he saw his first Games at age thirteen. It was the year his father had been handpicked as a stylist in the Games for one of the districts—an honor amongst Capitol aristocrats. 

Mark has never met the tribute but he knew he was around his age, possibly a year younger. His father had spent days in the office, carving up patterns of different designs, cut and sewn onto his board. Mark would peer past the big doors to find him sitting in his chair as early as dawn. 

The preparations went by faster than he had noticed and by the time the Reapings had been done, Mark found himself sitting at the top floor of the amphitheater as he spectated the interviews for each tribute. The 64th year of the Games. It was a grand seat, especially reserved for the stylists of the Games and their families. 

The first few districts were boring, all carbon copies of each other in different frilled dresses, tucked suits and dashing smiles. Mark never paid attention to the actual Games but the interviews were something that always intrigued him. It was interesting to see how desperate each tribute was to save their own skin. 

He thinks it’s pointless. He’s heard the Careers were always the reigning champions, it was only so rare to see the other districts win. 

The last tribute of the night walked on stage and something about him is so familiar. Mark squinted to make sense of it. His mussed brown hair pushed upwards to reveal his forehead and the deep blue suit he adorned shone along the studio lights. 

Mark has seen that design one too many times. This was his father’s. The boy fidgeted as he sat on the white couch. He definitely looked around Mark’s age, not somebody he would willingly talk to but—his age. 

The host announced his name loud and clear. 

“Jisung Park, District Twelve.” Mark repeated like he’s testing the weight of the name on his tongue. 

He shifted his gaze to his father and saw him focused on Jisung Park, and he knew he was right. 

Mark watched, wary, as the boy continued to stutter and slip over his words. His own impatience ran thin as he tapped a foot against the carpeted floors. 

The actual Games only started days after that. 

Never having seen the Games, Mark was unfamiliar with it’s layout. It was odd, definitely. The cameras were too quick and there was too much blood all the time that it made him sick. Something about watching kids his age struggle to stay alive had set something ugly in his stomach. 

Mark didn’t understand why anyone could have possibly found this entertaining. But rejecting it would be treason. Mark wasn’t a fan of defiance. 

He didn’t watch for the thrill but out of curiosity. Namely for a certain tribute. He wondered how long Jisung Park could survive in that brutal arena with all his stuttering and clumsy acts. 

It turned out he didn’t. 

It was the third day when a knock to his door greeted him and Mark decided to join his family to watch instead of watching it alone. It was a little uncomfortable for him, the blood and violence still made him a little nauseous but his parents seemed to be fine so he soon eased into it. 

“Have you been keeping up?” His mother asked, eyes filled with excitement and a glass of champagne in her hand. “Isn’t it exciting?”

Mark settled into his seat and pressed his lips into a thin line. “Yes, quite.” He says but his voice was sharp around the edges, a little unsure himself. 

“Oh, this year’s the best one in a while! It’s a shame we aren’t allowed to sponsor. Right, dear?” She turned to his father, stoic look overtaking his features. 

“I wouldn’t spend a dime on them, darling.” 

His mother clicked her tongue and shifted her gaze back to the screen.

His father had his feet tapping against the floor halfway through and this was the most anxious Mark has ever seen his father been. He was quite reserved, outgoing when it came to business but often kept things controlled and calculated. Seeing Jisung Park survive that long has had him grasping at small glimmers of hope. 

If Jisung had won, Mark’s father would’ve been a household name all summer. One of the true elites amongst stylists in the Capitol. The stylists of the winners would always be bombarded with interviews, a vision of the world through their fashion. 

That dream died with Jisung in the arena as Mark watched, mortified, at the way his head was forced onto a rock twice as big as his head. He watched it pop like an inflated balloon. Mark closed his eyes and still saw the image burn behind his eyelids—he forced himself to look away. 

Just a week ago, that boy was alive. And then he wasn’t. Mark tried to wrap his head around it, he broke it down logically. 

The same boy he saw on stage, the one clad in a midnight blue suit his father had created was now as dead as he was alive. Mark has seen a few tributes die before Jisung had but none were as brutal as this. 

But what made him sick was not the scene itself. It was what came after. An exasperated scoff from his right. 

Mark was no longer looking at the screen, he was unable to. So he shifted his gaze to his father and found something much more horrible. 

There was no trace of remorse. There was no grief or pain. 

It was annoyance that filled his eyes, pure annoyance. And for a moment, he wondered why. Was that all his father had managed to feel towards the tribute that had murdered a boy he had known. Even for a short while, his father had still known Jisung. 

But it dawned on him. No, that look of exasperation was not for the other tribute, it wasn’t even for the Capitol. It was for Jisung. 

It was for a boy who had been picked from the poorest district in Panem and had met his unlucky end in a cruel game. It was for a boy who had ruined his father’s chances to get into the Capitol’s inner circle by simply dying. 

The guilt in Mark’s throat made his tongue sour with remorse.

He stopped watching the Games altogether after that.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck doesn’t remember much about what happened in the Capitol before his time in the arena. He does, however, remember his interview. As clear as day.

The host, Dexter Rivers, had bright pink hair that year—pushed to the side to showcase his purple eyelashes that fell gracefully on his cheek. Donghyuck thinks he only had his hair styled that way for the crowd to acknowledge the new cheekbones he had gotten. 

He could definitely tell back then. He had seen him on television more times throughout the years than needed. The man never seemed to age well.

They joked, laughed and Donghyuck lied through his teeth. 

For a brief moment, he thought Yangyang had been watching, somewhere in Twelve. He would rather he didn’t. 

The thought of him sitting there in a golden suit akin to a thousand burning suns, a set of expensive jewellery hanging off his neck while Yangyang, a friend, had watched silently to distract himself from starvation—it always left a twisting feeling in his stomach. 

Donghyuck remembered answering a few more questions as Dexter praised him on his wit and quick thinking. 

“So,” Dexter started once the crowd settled back down. “Donghyuck.” he said cautiously, faux pity heavy in his voice. 

“I’ve been told, there was a special someone back home waiting for you. Now is that true?”

Donghyuck remembered the feeling of his mouth running dry. He hadn’t known what to say. It wasn’t true, how could it be? His mother was all he had. Yangyang was merely a friend. But then he looked at Dexter and met his eyes—saw that they were wide and encouraging. He wanted a story, something to sell. 

And the audience was waiting. 

“Yes.” Donghyuck croaked out. He cleared his throat and licked his lips. His honey flavored lip balm was sweet on his burning tongue. “Yes,” He said once again, much clearer. 

“That’s true. My mother.” 

He paused to squeeze out a reaction from the crowd, anything emotional. There were a few gasps here and there but nothing special. 

What could he have possibly said that has not been overdone? Years of the Games, they’ve heard it all. Ill mother, poor child, no father—a tale as old as time.

He continued. “She’s all I have. I promised her I would win.” That was a blatant lie, now that he thinks back to it. They both knew he wasn’t coming back. “If I win, then I would promise her a better life. One she actually deserves.”

The crowd cooed at that and Dexter joined them without missing a beat. Donghyuck was able to ease into his seat and calm his raging heart. 

“Isn’t he sweet ladies and gentlemen?” Dexter asked the audience. His bright pink hair seemed to go up in shimmering flames under the studio lights. “So heartwarming. And do you think you’ll win?”

The crowd quieted down. There was a moment of silence so deafening that it filled the air. It was suffocating—they were all staring, waiting for an answer.

He remembered, in that moment, everything had stilled. A brief second where his life had presented itself like shards of glass before his eyes. Coming together like a kaleidoscope. 

He saw himself, running through the rain at age ten with drenched clothes and a smile on his face. His mother joined him moments later. That was the first time they had eaten in weeks, a rabbit he managed to snatch in the woods. 

The smile on his mother’s face was something that kept him going months later, back into the woods for more meat even if it meant getting caught.

There was no one else for him, he thought. Who else would he live for?

“Definitely.” Donghyuck responded, full conviction. 

He didn’t dare to look into the camera. Not taking the chance of catching the lies in his eyes. 

Dexter Rivers inched closer to him on the couch and wrapped a hand around his. He hoped that he couldn't tell how much he was shaking. 

Dexter looked into the camera and then back at Donghyuck, pupils blown wide. “And win you will, my boy.”

_ This is it _ , he thought as he took a mental image of the moment before him. Dexter was already up, thanking him for joining them and Donghyuck saw the crowd clapping before them. 

Had they laughed and chuckled when they thought back to the tough front Donghyuck put up during the interview? Finding satisfaction in the way he would soon break down in the arena. He didn’t know, he didn’t know.

There was a man in the front row, clad in a white suit with icy blonde hair. He had a golden crest neatly pinned to his lapel. A predatory grin adorning his lips.

Donghyuck knew him. He was the same man who lowered the eligible age of entering the Games to as young as twelve years old. He is a part of the reason that twelve year old Jisung Park was chosen, six years ago.

Donghyuck smiled venomously and waved.

The days after that went by like a blur. He spent most of his time in the Training Centre, observing.

He saw what the other tributes could do. Most of them were good in combat, light-handed with a spear and axe. District Four were exceptionally good in water. That was given when your district catches fish for a living. 

Though Donghyuck made it a habit to not learn any of their names. He knew it made the inevitable killing harder. 

There were tributes as young as twelve that year. He would be going up against literal children and he remembered hoping they would die fast when they do. He never lingered too long in the Training Centre when they were around. 

When he wasn’t training, he spent most of his time in his bathroom. It was always dry and clean there. It was the smallest room in the entire Tribute Penthouse and ultimately felt the most like home. 

He used to sit with his back against the wooden door, curled into a ball and whispered reassuringly to himself. He did this for at least an hour a day until it felt less numb and he ended up dazing out the large window. 

He noticed that sunsets in the Capitol appeared more beautiful than they do in Twelve. He thought his mother would love to see it. She was a painter growing up. She would talk his ear off about all the different hues and colours mixed together, none of which he understood but he listened regardless of his growling stomach. They’ve only ever had each other after his father left.

He stared blankly at the metal floor. He’d been daydreaming for too long. A stinging pain shot up his arm until he realized he was in a seat, strapped down with something glowing under the skin of his forearm. That was the day of the Games.


	2. the snake’s entrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mark and donghyuck meet.

When Donghyuck gets home from Jeno’s, he has two voicemails and a gift basket waiting for him in the lobby. It’s the typical—fruits that he doesn’t eat and would soon rot in the fridge (if it weren’t for Renjun clearing them out,  _ “Who the hell puts fruits in the fridge?” _ he would mutter) and decorative flowers. 

On most days, he would even leave them in the lobby for anyone to take home as they please. Though unlike any other time, today the gift arrives with a notecard stuck to the front—gilded and neat. The Capitol’s emblem imprinted centre front. 

He sets it on his kitchen island and goes straight for the fridge. He wouldn’t be able to make it through the card without being at least a little tipsy. The beer cap flips off the edge of the table with a pop, he reaches for the card.

He doesn’t need to read a whole lot, the first few lines are enough for him to get the general gist, (— _ Dear Donghyuck Lee, it is our pleasure to inform you that you have been invited to the Presidential Palace,—). _ He crumbles the card in his palm and fights the urge to wince as the edges dig into the soft skin of his palms. 

It is that time of the year again, he almost forgets for once. Donghyuck wasn’t fit enough to mentor the future tributes from Twelve but as a past victor, he’s still expected to attend the annual banquets they hold before the Games. 

He takes another sip of his beer, now warm in his hands. It tastes disgusting on his tongue. Renjun’s number is just a dial away.

The phone rings three times before a scruffy voice picks up. 

“Hello?” Even through the phone, Donghyuck hears Jaemin’s annoyance bleed through his voice.

“It’s me.” Donghyuck replies as if he hadn’t known. “Where’s Renjun?” 

He hears a silent argument on the other line as the phone is pulled away. There are muffled voices and Jaemin’s disapproving tone is heard clear across the line. He must’ve given in because Renjun’s voice is heard through the phone seconds later.

“I’m here. About time you called back too. I heard the invites got out today—“

“Yeah. I just got back from a friend’s, I got mine today. Is the suit ready?”

There’s a pause on the other line, Donghyuck should’ve seen it coming.

“Since when do you have other friends?” Renjun teases, smug dripping from his tone. This is Donghyuck’s least favourite part of their relationship. 

“He’s the only friend I have, barely at that. Don’t get ahead of yourself Huang, I told you we aren’t friends. I’m paying you to be my stylist.”

“Oh, Hyuck, you wound me. And here I thought we were the best of friends. I almost made us friendship bracelets.”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. It’s always a gamble talking to Renjun. It could always go two ways; he would either be serious and professional or a complete pain in the ass. More often than not, it’s the latter. 

“Is the suit ready or not?” He says, exasperated.

“Yeah. I’ll have it sent to your apartment by noon tomorrow and we can have a fitting before the banquet.”

He writes that down on a piece of paper and leaves it stuck to the cold, marble table as a reminder. 

A second later, Renjun’s teasing tone is dripping saccharine when he speaks. “Would you like anything else your High—”

Donghyuck hangs up before he could finish. If a smile has crept its way to his lips then he pretends not to acknowledge its presence. It’s been too long since he has smiled anyway. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“You got an invite this year. For the banquet.” Johnny blurts out one night while they were in the middle of devouring a late meal after a long meeting. 

Mark isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s probably a good thing. His parents used to be invited every year but now that he has taken over as the face of their business, he’s expected to attend in their favour. It’s a little daunting, now that he’s come to think of it. 

Johnny will not be there to accompany him. Only invitees are allowed to go and them alone. Johnny will not be there to tell Mark what to do or how to act and frankly, he doesn’t trust himself all that well for it to turn out just fine. 

All this sudden responsibility weighs on his shoulder and drags him closer to the ground. 

“Oh.” Mark is only able to nod and wear his most stoic look. “Good.”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this. You have to go.” 

“I know.” Mark grumbles, his pride is a fragile thing that is often poked and teased. He jabs his fork into the chicken and stuffs it in his mouth. 

A little while later, he reaches for his napkin and taps the edges of his mouth clean. “I’m tired. I have to wake up early to check on the shop tomorrow.” 

He undoes his tie. The buttons of his shirt come undone by default. “Get out and lock the door when you're done.”

“Mark,” Johnny calls out to him before he could make his way up the stairs and into the bedroom. 

“You know I don’t doubt you. You’ll make the right choices when the time is right. You wouldn’t be running the business if your parents didn’t trust you.”

To this, Mark scoffs—loud and clear. He can’t help the words that escape him, the things he’s kept locked in his heart for too long. “You’d be a fool to trust their judgement if you knew the things I did.”

He doesn’t need to turn to see the look on Johnny’s face. Mark’s words could mean many things but they all speak a form of defiance. He learns to hold his tongue next time. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There is a memory so vivid that often greets Donghyuck late at night. When the moon is a beaming disk in the sky and the night is so silent, he breaks into fragments of himself—unable to be contained by his bare hands. Like a collage, he sees them in stills—pictures burned into the back of his mind.

Lying here, in his big, empty bed in the heart of the Capitol, Donghyuck sees his old house back in the Seam. He stares at the ceiling and wonders why it’s so far away and unreachable. Back then, all he had to do to reach the ceiling of his house in the Seam was to stand on the tip of his toes. He would be able to feel the dust on his fingers as he presses it to the rickety surface above his head.

His mother would scold him every time, saying that he would bring the whole house down with that. It was funny then but now thinking back, she probably meant it. 

Tonight he lies on his back, looking at the unreachable ceiling that looks yards away from his bed and wonders, how high he would have to jump for his fingers to reach the dusty flat surface. 

Too much thinking tires him so he stands on his feet on the bed and feels it dip further down from the pressure. It’s a little closer now, barely. Like a child, he starts bouncing on the heels of his feet. 

The bed creaks beneath him, rumbling and shakes as he jumps with more fervor. The ceiling is still so far but when he reaches an arm out and stretches his fingers to the sky, they seem almost attainable. 

He decides to take a leap of faith, quite literally.

Curiosity gnaws on his insides and Donghyuck bends his knees, putting all the pressure into the mattress as he leaps above—getting as high as his feet is able to push him. For a moment, he feels like he’s flying in the air and his eyes are up above with a goal in mind. He longs to remember the feeling of his childhood on his fingers, the feeling of being compacted in this big, lonely room. 

On his way up,  _ I’m almost there _ , he thinks. He imagines his mother scolding him in her chirpy tone,  _ “Donghyuck, you’ll bring the whole house down!” _ She would say. 

He doesn’t quite reach the ceiling before the realization of the weight on his body hits and he’s being pulled back down to the ground. The fall is almost instant. It’s a long one, cartoonish in his mind with sound effects that ring in his head. 

The ring prolongs for much longer when he hits the ground and instead of on his soft sheets, he lands a little bit further away and knocks his head on the cold floor below. There is a sound of a crack somewhere in his body and he can’t feel his legs for a good few minutes. His head is sore, aching and possibly bleeding but Donghyuck can’t help the chuckle that escapes him.

There, on the edge of his numb fingers, are specks of dust that display the fruits of his efforts. He chortles even louder before everything caves in and he lies unconscious until morning comes. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The wound had become scar over time, a long slash along the back of his head. On stressful days, the stitches would come undone and Donghyuck would pay a visit to the medical center again to get them done. It’s a whole mess and he doesn’t bring it up to Renjun and Renjun doesn’t ask when he sees them. He knows his boundaries. 

Today, they feel like they’re on the verge of coming undone. 

Renjun is crouching by his leg for the fitting of tomorrow's event, adjusting the length of his pants accordingly. They’re a bit too short and ride a little above his ankles. It frustrates Donghyuck to no end when cold air would creep along his legs. 

He gets sick of standing after a while and plops on the nearest sofa beside his mirror. Renjun, who was carefully pinning the bottom part of his pants, lets out a frustrated sigh when the needles come undone. 

“God, can you sit still for once?” He starts pinning all over again.

Donghyuck doesn’t feel the bite in his chest today so he obeys silently until Renjun is done. 

Halfway through, he speaks again. “You know you don’t have to go.”

They both know it’s not up for discussion. “Yeah, but I enjoy having food to eat and a place to stay. We both know what happens when things don’t go their way.”

“I told you I could help. Jaemin and I can help you until it gets better. You can stay with us.”

“He hates me, you know that. Plus that's now how it works. The fact that you’re able and willing to help already makes you a target. You’re just my stylist, Renjun. Just do your job for once.”

A needle pricks his ankle and Donghyuck yelps before sending him a dirty look. 

“You’re letting them use you like a ragdoll.” Renjun grumbles under his breath.

Donghyuck tastes venom crawl up the junctions of his throat. Now he’s in the mood for some bite. Renjun could tell by the way he stiffens, that he’s struck a nerve. 

“I’m no one’s fucking ragdoll. I’m just not stupid. You pick a fight without a plan is how you die in an arena.”

Renjun shakes his head, still stubborn as ever. His clean cut hair falls over his eyes. “You keep living in the past. You’re not in that arena anymore.”

That opens something ugly in his chest. A casket he has long buried deep underground. Donghyuck has spent the better half of the past three years scratching his way out of the hellhole he was left in. He’s earned his way here. 

There is something distant in his eyes as he stares over the large window overlooking the city’s skyline. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I never left.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The banquet is the same as it is every other year. 

The Presidential Palace always seems more grand than the last. They’ve added new foyers, a few more floors, a new garden—Donghyuck is ashamed to say he’s seen it all. He’s been here too many times. 

Every year, they spare no expenses. The aristocrats from all around the Capitol, beloved victors, government officials all attend before the start of the Games in the upcoming week. 

Tonight, his suit is a velvety plum with jeweled rocks lined along the lapel of his blazer. Some lay astray on the apples of his cheeks after much convincing from Renjun himself. He looks and feels like a God in the most horrid way. 

Donghyuck doesn’t enjoy pulling much attention to him in events like these. There’s already so much buzz around him as it is. He doesn’t need more attention. But Capitol people flock him like a moth to a flame whenever he shows up. Unfortunately, on the list of beloved victors—Donghyuck’s name is at the top of the list. 

It’s only so rare to be the president’s favourite. There are perks to it; he lives in the Capitol, he doesn’t mentor tributes from Twelve anymore and he’s allowed a quite generous allowance. The downside—he’s practically a dog on a leesh. The Capitol is funny like that. They will bend over backwards to reward someone for being a monster. 

The other victors aren’t as fond of him as everyone else is and he doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t like them either. There aren't a handful of people he could say he tolerates. Jeno, Renjun… the list ends there. 

Standing here, in the ballroom of the Presidential Palace, he thinks back to how he’d used to make fun of the exact people who he now shares drinks with, the kind of people that act as dogs on a leesh for the President. 

Donghyuck has turned himself into someone he’s grown to despise. He has won the Games before and he’s alive but this isn’t living. This is still surviving. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Johnny drops him off at the entrance and waits as he’s escorted inside before leaving. He had tapped Mark on the back as he left, reassuring him that he’d be back before half past midnight. Mark, proud as ever, brushes him off and says he’ll be fine, disguising the hesitance in his voice with a cough. 

This is all too foreign for him. He isn’t sure where to go or who to ask, all he knows is that he's supposed to be here. He really should’ve asked Johnny to explain before agreeing to this. 

Redness flushes through his cheeks as he stutters his steps, quickly following a small crowd through the entrance and past the foyer. The classic, royal blue suit he’s wearing is a little tight around the thighs and sticks to his skin as he tries catching up with the group. Mark straightens the small handkerchief folded inside his breast pocket and continues walking.

He finds himself in the ballroom quickly after and feels the ground beneath him rumble. Mark feels incredibly out of place. These people have known each other for years, decades—he’s been in business for a good two weeks. 

A waiter passes him with a tray of champagne glasses and Mark reaches out to grab one. 

He takes two instead. 

With a slight buzz and a clearer mind, he’s able to finally think. Johnny's words repeat at the back of his mind like a mantra.  _ Talk to people, that’s the only reason you’re there.  _

Mark surveys the room as he clinks the edge of his ring to his champagne glass. He sees friends of his father, business partners he’s known for years, and people he doesn’t recognize but knows they're the government. The pretty little crest on their chest is so hard to miss. 

Through the ache forming in his mind and the buzz of the alcohol that accompanies it, Mark’s eyes land on someone in the crowd. Toned chest and pretty moles, they are gentle on the eyes—a sphinx among the sea of serpents. 

Perhaps it's the indifference that catches his eyes. Everyone here smiles and laughs like it’s an instinct but this man—-his sphinx—doesn’t hide his distaste. He can try but his eyes are honest to a fault. 

Mark stills when they catch his eyes and hold a gaze. 

Johnny’s voice is somewhere at the back of his mind, lingering, telling him this is a bad idea. But Mark likes bad ideas, it’s really all he’s good at these days. 

What Johnny doesn’t know, won’t kill him. Hopefully. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Donghyuck returned from the Games as a champion, the first few months were absolute hell. In fact, hell was a day at the spa compared to what he’d gone through those first 6 months. 

Returning home, the only thing he wanted was his mother. He wanted to watch her face as she called him a monster for what he’d done in the Games or watch her mourn for the small part of him that had died in that arena—buried deep within the metal skies, artificial trees and pools of blood on his hands. 

He wanted to see it all. He’d gone crazy all week from the praises he knows he doesn’t deserve. He’s a monster for what he did. For once, he needed to hear how horrible it was. For himself more than anyone else, Donghyuck knows it’s selfish. 

He can’t help but think this was Jisung’s curse to him. Not for him to suffer in that arena but to come out a reigning champion with a beating heart in his hand. His curse will be a shadow of guilt that grows with every breath he takes. 

It’s Yangyang’s parents that greet him at the station, the second he steps off the train. They have sunken eyes and look thinner than usual without someone supplying them the squirrels they need from the woods. Yangyang is not there to greet him and that unfurls something vile in his stomach. Alarms sound in his ears.

He’s pulled into a hug before anything else. Donghyuck can’t help but flinch. He hasn’t allowed anyone to hold him all week in the Capitol. No handshakes, no pats on the backs—no holding. He forgot how warm it’s supposed to feel. Yangyang’s mother pulls back when she feels him stiffen. 

He doesn’t want to ask questions just yet and they don’t ask either. He’s brought back to their little house in the Seam. It’s not that far from his and they offered tea before he could decline. 

Donghyuck doesn’t want to be rude so he shoves his hands in his pocket and feels around for the key to his new house. It’s one of those houses in the Victor’s Village. The kind that’s unlived in and everyone passes by on their way to school or the mine to gawk at. 

There are large pillars that uphold the entrance with ceilings high enough that Donghyuck wouldn’t be able to reach even if he had stood on his toes. There’s more than enough room for him and his mother. He thinks he might ask Yangyang and a few of his siblings to move in, just to fill the house in a little more. 

His mind jolts awake for what feels like the first time all day. Yangyang’s absence is a painful sting in the air. 

With a dry throat, Donghyuck manages to croak out: “Where’s my mother?” 

When he gets no answer, panic bubbles inside him and he presses further to raise his voice. “Where is she?”

Their faces fill with remorse so strong, he tastes it on his tongue. Yangyang’s parents settle down and his mother takes Donghyuck’s hands in hers. He fights the urge to pull away.

“I’m sorry. I truly am. We tried everything to save her but she was just too weak.”

Donghyuck feels the ground crumble beneath him. It opens it’s jaws and swallows him whole, tearing him to shreds. He almost wants to laugh in its presence. 

A tribute from Twelve, the winner of the 74th Hunger Games, a killer, a lunatic and an orphan. These are the things Donghyuck adds to the list to help sort himself out. 

He lets the silence consume him. It has been so tiring to be so strong when the one person you’ve been staying strong for is no longer there. A dam floods his eyes and his body shakes vehemently without reluctance. The last time he’s felt this tired was in the arena. 

Through sobs, he wills himself to ask, “And Yangyang?” 

He gets another squeeze on the hand. 

“He was gone the morning after the burial, we haven’t seen him since. It’s been 2 weeks.” 

More cries, uglier than before shatters throughout his body until he’s a sobbing mess on the wooden table. Yangyang’s family is there and waits until he’s able to breathe without the world closing in on him. They wait despite hurting just as much for losing their eldest son and brother. 

Donghyuck can’t tell if Yangyang ran out of guilt or fear or both. Guilt for breaking his promise and fear for who Donghyuck had become. The thought is even sour on the tongue. Was Yangyang afraid of him, now that he’d seen what he could do? 

He doesn’t know but it isn’t fair either way. 

Another part of Donghyuck died on that day. The part that is woven to his soul and shields his delicate heart. It lies next to his mother in her grave. 

A tribute from Twelve, the winner of the 74th Hunger Games, a killer, a lunatic, an orphan and the abandoned. These are the things Donghyuck adds to the list to help sort himself out. He is alone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck catches the man staring just before he looks away. His gaze is unmistakably alluring.  _ Ah,  _ these _ kinds of people _ , he thinks. The ones that are too rich for their own good and have enough money to hire someone else to think for them. They probably get off attending these kinds of events just for the thrill of getting caught with their hand down someone else’s pants.

He knows these kinds of people too well and he’s willing to play along. This party is a bust and he’s avoided almost everyone who’s tried to muster up a conversation. If he doesn’t have a little bit of fun soon, who knows what he’ll do. 

He sends the man a practicised smile and walks out the ballroom. It’s a bonus the stranger is conventionally good looking. High cheekbones, dark hair, pretty mouth—it’s been too long since he’s slept with anyone besides Jeno. Public indecency might be nice for a change. 

The man follows him through the foyer and Donghyuck is even more intrigued than he was before. The music doesn’t reach this far and there’s no one else around, his skin burns with excitement. It’s been too long since he’s felt like this, Donghyuck is so weak for the dark and mysterious. Maybe this night isn’t a total bust.

Footsteps get louder behind him and he halts to spin around. The same man, now tousled dark hair reaching his eyes, stands behind him. 

“Can I help you?” Donghyuck asks and bats his eyelashes prettily. If there’s anything he’s learned, it’s that Capitol people love a good show and Donghyuck doesn’t mind a little bit of foreplay. It’s his favourite part of hooking up—here he can pretend they wouldn’t be at each other throats on any other circumstances. 

Blood rushes south when the stranger eyes him up and down. He’s waiting to see which one of them would reach out first. Playing hard to get is Donghyuck’s favourite game, he never loses. 

“You look familiar.” The man says with his husky voice. It’s deep and hoarse from the champagne.

Being paranoid goes a long way when you live in the Capitol, you learn to hone your instincts to separate from the good and the bad. The problem is, Donghyuck can’t tell when it comes to this stranger. Which makes him all the more dangerous. The blood that had previously travelled between his legs shot back up his spine and he’s more turned off than he’s ever been.

“Right.” The man says. His two fingers press into the sides of his chin mockingly. Donghyuck could see he’s already chosen his words carefully, only stalling to get under his skin. “I guess I didn't recognize you without all that blood on your face.”

To live in the Capitol with your heart on your sleeve is suicide. Donghyuck schools his expression though it comes so naturally, he doubts it even looked like he flinched. Most people already know him the moment he walks into the room. This man must be new. 

“What gave it away?”

The man inches closer, invading all the space Donghyuck has put between them. He balls his fist by instinct. 

“Those eyes. Manic.” The stranger pauses. “Donghyuck Lee. Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. District… Eleven?”

“Twelve.” He corrects him. 

The man looks a little pleased when it seems to strike a nerve in him. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve never been one to be quite interested in the Games.”

Somehow, this irks Donghyuck the most. Still, he learns to control his emotions. If there was anything Capitol serpents like these love more than a good brawl, is a weakness. A breaking point. 

The districts would lay their life down for the entertainment of the Capitol. For them to point and laugh and cry at the expense of the tribute’s lives. 

“It's mandatory for all Capitol citizens to watch.” He says, all conviction.

“I’m not very good at doing what I’m told.” 

The Capitol accent that bleeds through his voice reminds Donghyuck of who this man really is. He is a part of the system that corrupts and kills and takes without mercy. He allows himself to scoff. “If that were true, we would be getting along by now.”

“Are we not getting along?” 

“I don’t think being interrogated is a sign of getting along.” 

The man laughs, big white teeth and sharp around the edges. He loosens up. “Don’t see it as an interrogation. I think you’re the only person worth talking to here.” 

“And why is that?”

“You don’t pretend to like anyone.”

“I’m not good at pretending.”

“Unfortunately for you, I think that’s true.”

Donghyuck doesn’t like this man. Doesn’t enjoy how easily he sees through him. He blames his own neediness for putting him in such a situation. 

Before he could retaliate, another figure appeared behind them. A worker with hair swept to the side and sweat forming at her temples. She looks relieved when she finds Donghyuck in the foyer.

“Mr. Donghyuck Lee, the President has requested to see you.”

He holds his tongue and swallows his words. He sends her a curt nod and straightens his blazer out. The stranger, who’s now become somewhat bothersome, smiles with an edge. 

“The President. Big stuff for a past victor. You must be honored.”

Honor isn’t the word he’d use, but sure.

“Of course.” Donghyuck answers simply. He learns that talking too much around these kinds of people is too dangerous. Curiosity still bites at his cheek and he turns at the last minute to meet the stranger's gaze. 

“I guess it’s not fair that you know all about me and I know nothing about you. What’s your name?

The other laughs. “So, you don’t know me?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Maybe not. But I don’t know much about you either.”

“There’s nothing else to know about me. That’s all there is.”

“I thought we’ve established that you’re bad at pretending.” The man laughs. “If you want to know me then you’ll have to earn it. Names are a powerful thing.”

Donghyuck offers him an unimpressed look, to which he returns with a laugh.

“You should go. Wouldn’t want to keep the President waiting.” The man walks past him but halts to lean down and whisper in his ear.

“See you when I see you, Donghyuck Lee. Tell Renjun, I said hello.” He doesn’t explain any further before walking off back into the ballroom.

When Donghyuck returns from his chat with the President, the stranger is long gone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mark doesn’t remember the first time he’s ever seen Donghyuck but his time in the arena was the most memorable. There aren’t a lot of victors Mark could name. He doesn’t watch the Games but there are some victors who are so loved, you can’t help but know about them through the grapevine. Donghyuck Lee is one of them. 

When he had won the Games, Mark was half-way into his second year of school to qualify as a stylist in the Capitol. He’d been in the dorms when they played the final killings for the 74th year. It was one of the only times he wasn’t able to look away. 

The blood made him nauseous and maybe it’s been too long since he’s watched one of the Games and he’s grown a little soft, but he could tell by his roommate’s pale face, that this wasn’t something common either—even in the Games. 

The last one standing was Donghyuck Lee, splattered in blood with a face red with rage, holding a still beating heart in his hands just seconds before the fanfare is heard and he’s announced as the winner for the 74th Hunger Games. Just like that, something dreadful was seen washing over him through the screen. The fanfare was loud enough that it knocked him out of whatever trance he was in and he was stumbling backwards to the ground, staring horridly at the blood caking underneath his fingernails.

The broadcast had been cut there and was soon edited shorter when it was displayed across screens in the city. 

Mark sees him again only a few years later, posted in a photoshoot for Renjun Huang’s summer catalog. He almost didn’t recognize him. The duller skin, thinner shape and hollow look in his eyes. Renjun rarely accepts long term clients but Donghyuck Lee had somehow caught his eye. A past victor, an odd image for his brand. 

Then again, Renjun was never much of a stickler when it comes to fashion. It was what made him so frustrating to share a class with. It was always new ideas when it comes to him and Mark hates to admit he’s admired that about him for a while.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck smacks the newspaper on the table and it leaves a resounding slap bouncing off the walls of the apartment. Renjun barely flinches, still holding a tight grip on his teacup but Jaemin beside him, scowls. Donghyuck returns it with a glare of his own.

“So nice of you to invite yourself to our home. In the morning. While we’re having breakfast.” Jaemin says, tone mocking as ever. His dark hair shot through with silver kissing it’s tips like winter frost. He grumbles into his tea.

Donghyuck ignores him and zones in on Renjun sitting prettily near the countertop, cradling the cup in his hands. “Look at the front page.”

Renjun doesn’t look until he’s had a sip. 

_ ‘UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS TO TRIBUTE CENTERS ARE TO BE DETAINED ON SIGHT’  _ is printed in bold words at the front of the page, followed by a brief article. Renjun stares at it for a little bit, taking it in but Donghyuck notices he isn’t surprised. More dreadful than anything. The daily paper in the Capitol is usually filled with things like these—reminders of the law, the usual propaganda that makes it so hard to digest. But something in the tone shifts this time, something Donghyuck can’t quite explain and he hates nothing more than things he can’t grasp. 

Renjun feigns uncertainty when he asks, “And what am I looking at?” 

Even through his calm facade, Donghyuck sees a sliver of edge on his face. He considers—they are in front of Jaemin. Jaemin doesn’t particularly enjoy these talks (or any talks involving Donghyuck at all, they are very fond of each other… at all).

But Donghyuck isn’t here to make Jaemin feel comfortable. He’s here with a goal in mind. He pushes further, flattening his palms against the marble countertop. “Something’s off. Different. They wouldn’t publish an article this bold without a reason.”

Jaemin had begun (not-so) secretly shifting his gaze back and forth between the two, until Renjun set his cup down, giving him a small smile. Donghyuck and Jaemin—who knows Renjun more than anyone—could see the tautness of his muscles.

“Darling, could you give me a few minutes with my client?” 

Renjun only refers to Donghyuck as a client when it’s serious.

Jaemin, wary as ever, complies. “Fine, I’ll be on the balcony.”

Donghyuck takes his seat as soon as he’s gone. He taps a finger on the ridged surface of the front page, ignoring the way the black ink stains his skin. 

Renjun waits a few long minutes to go by, sipping on his tea until he feels impatience wafting around the air beside him. 

“Do you know what fuels anger and authority, Donghyuck?” Renjun’s voice is light as a feather and a little raspy around the edges from his morning lavender tea. 

“Stop talking in circles Renjun, you know I hate that.” Donghyuck sneers.

“Yeah, I do.” 

He pours Donghyuck his own cup of tea, which he knows he’ll never come close to taking a sip of. Donghyuck hates fragrant teas, it doesn’t go well with his indigestion but Renjun is a man of habit and manners, so he does it anyway. 

“It’s fear, by the way. Fear fuels anger.” 

“Good to know. Your point?” 

The China clinks against the table when Renjun sets his cup down. His hair is longer now, almost covering half of his face and if Donghyuck hadn’t been sitting close enough, he would’ve missed the dark circles under his eyes. It has been quite a few weeks since they’ve seen each other. 

“So impatient.” Renjun mumbles, almost disappointed. He gives in, as always. “I heard through the grapevine that some weapons and explosives from the arsenal in the Tribute Center had disappeared.”

Donghyuck wears a pinched expression. “ _ ‘ _ Disappeared?’” 

“Stolen.”

“How much?”

“Enough to start a war.” 

This has Donghyuck scoffing. “Who would be stupid enough to do that? They monitor the Capitol like a hawk. And the district would be wiped off the map like Thirteen if they were ever caught.”

There is something dazzling in Renjun’s eyes, like he’s hoping Donghyuck would catch on at any moment. He tips his head back and reveals his maniacal smile. “And if they’re not in the 12 Districts? Or the Capitol?”

“You’re a lunatic Renjun, not a believer. Are you suggesting it was what? Ghosts?”

“Close enough. I heard it was District Thirteen.”

Donghyuck pushes the chair back and feels the hairs on his arm stand as it leaves a loud screech. He’s had enough of this chat and if Renjun wasn’t going to give him straight answers, he’s just wasting his time. 

“District Thirteen doesn’t exist anymore. The Capitol burned it to the ground.”

“And what about underground? My sources tell me they’re very much thriving.”

“You want me to believe District Thirteen exists and they have a whole colony underground?”

Renjun takes another sip of his tea but scowls when he finds that it turned lukewarm. He looks like an angry cat with his freshly dyed gray hair—the kind that aristocrats have lying around in their house, doing nothing, but tearing into their expensive furniture. Donghyuck wants to comment on it just to rile Renjun up, but he holds his tongue. 

“I’m not telling you to believe in anything. You asked and I answered with what I know.”

Donghyuck grumbles. He hates it when Renjun makes sense. That was  _ his _ job. 

“Fine. Let's say I do believe you.” He starts. “District Thirteen was in charge of manufacturing the explosives and weaponry. If they had survived all this while, why hadn’t they attacked? And why steal from the Capitol?”

A shrug is all Renjun offers. “Maybe they were waiting for the right time. If District Thirteen really is real, they don’t need the Capitol’s weapons. This is a warning.” 

This is as much as Donghyuck will process for the day. Talks of war and districts that were long abandoned from the Dark Days, it’s barely noon. 

He gives his hair a side sweep and tucks his hand into his pocket. “Whatever, I’m leaving. Walk me out.”

Renjun rolls his eyes but does it anyway. Manners. 

If Donghyuck had still lived in Twelve, he would receive no such treatment. Manners weren’t really their top priority. It’s probably one of the lowest on their list—being alive taking the number one spot. It reminds him how different he and Renjun can be. Donghyuck looks like one of them but he can never  _ be _ one of them. They’ll always be worlds apart. He doesn’t know if he’s glad or upset about it. 

“Oh,” He says, before Renjun closes the door on him. He’s suddenly reminded of dark hair and mysterious eyes. 

“Do you know anyone who attended the banquet?” 

Renjun stares him down, an eyebrow quirked in his favor. “I’m a stylist Donghyuck. I know almost everybody there.”

Donghyuck starts listing what he remembers about the stranger that night, “Obnoxious face, dark eyes, looks like a piece of shit.” 

It’s not the best list but it’s what comes to mind. 

Renjun doesn’t seem to agree. 

“You’re going to need to be more specific than that.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice and Donghyuck can almost smell the taste of lavender on his breath. 

He tries again, better this time; “Dark hair, high cheekbones and strong features. He said he knew you and to tell you he said hello.”

Annoyance presents itself in Renjun’s eyes. He leans against his door frame, like he’s bracing himself (or holding himself back) from spilling on all he knows. Renjun answers in small doses, Donghyuck knows that. It irritates him to no end, but he knows it. That’s just how he is.

“His name is Mark Lee. His family has a pretty strong hold on the fashion industry in the Capitol; they have connections all over. Fuck a silver spoon, he was practically fed with a gilded knife and fork.”

Mark Lee has done the impossible; he’s made himself even more mysterious. 

“And you know him how?”

“We were in the same class.” Renjun averts his eyes to the ground, shuffling between his feet before meeting Donghyuck’s gaze. More than an angry cat, Renjun now resembles a fox with his sharp eyes and pinched nose. 

“Just— stay away from him. He’s bad news. If there really is a war going on, he’s the last person you would want to be caught up with.”

Donghyuck learns that giving an enigma a name—does not make them any less mysterious. 

“Fine, I won’t.” He gets ready to take off as he tucks the newspaper under his arm, but Renjun’s loud sigh stops him. 

“You know you’re a good liar Hyuck, but your eyes are honest to a fault.”

It’s one of those things Renjun had told him when they first met. Things he reminds him of countless times before to fix. Donghyuck more than anyone would know the dangers of being honest in a city where lies and half-truths will lead you anywhere. But just like Renjun, he’s a man of habit. 

Donghyuck walks off and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/813na)   
>  [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/rensfilms)

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts, comments, kudos would be very much appreciated <3 
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/813na)  
> [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/rensfilms)


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